


Pineapples

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: DPRK, Hives, M/M, North Korea, Pineapples, motorcycle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CJK1701 on Tumblr asked for an unwell Mycroft, and Esendoran got a birthday wish for pineapples, motorcycles, North Korea, and Mystrade. </p><p>Greg is in the middle of an undercover Thing, and then this British Government person wanders onto the playing field. Things continue, suspect exits stage right, and then Greg has to deal with Mycroft having an emergency and requiring a small bit of rescuing. Yes, there is nudity, but no, it's not like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pineapples

Greg was an hour early, even for being an hour early. He was wearing his oldest, grubbiest clothes - a jumper he wore for painting and cleaning and washing the car, a pair of work trousers that had seen better days, and a peacoat he’d picked up the other day in a charity shop. He checked the set of the woolen cap, low on his forehead, pushing aside the ends of his thick grey hair that stuck out in uneven clumps. He hadn’t shaved today, either.

The park wasn’t very busy, but there were enough people passing through to keep him on his toes. If anyone happened to sit down on the same bench, he mumbled a little, shifted erratically, and refolded his worn copy of the _Metro._ When no one got too close, he worked on the sudoku. He’d strung it out for the first hour, then he saw a few of the others drifting into place. And then he saw someone else.

This was not the time. But yes, of course this was exactly the kind of time. Mycroft Holmes, strolling calmly along the path, his head down. And wearing the hat. Greg rolled his eyes, but didn’t drop character. If it had been anyone else, he would have been able to swear in court that he hadn’t been noticed. He wouldn’t even have been _seen,_ let alone noticed. But since he knew damned well that it was Mycroft, Mycroft would know damned well that it was him. Even though he had done everything he could to hide who he was, and Mycroft, in a grey pinstripe suit, casually swinging his umbrella, could only ever be mistaken for himself. The brim of the fedora blocked his line of sight to Greg’s bench, but it made no difference.  Greg understood, in theory, that Mycroft could look like someone other than himself. Greg had just never really seen him try.

“Is that who I think it is?” he heard Sally’s voice over the earpiece.

“Not necessary,” Greg mumbled at the battered poppy on his lapel that hid the microphone. “Focus.”

“What color did you say the bike was, Toby?” she asked.

“Custom blue,” came Toby Gregson’s clipped answer.

“Black leathers, blue Ducati just parked by the east entrance.”

Greg felt his heartbeat race, but kept his eyes on the adverts in the paper as he tracked the newcomer’s progress toward him across the park. “Yeah, got him,” he said quietly, straining his eyes to see the man coming into sight on his far right, the opposite direction from the direction Mycroft had come. “Lombardi’s making contact.”

He watched quietly as the man strode up to Mycroft, who was leaning forward, resting his elbows on the parapet of the bridge. His long black trench coat hung open, and as he straightened and turned toward his companion, Greg caught a glimpse of the silvery lining fabric as the breeze moved it. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but there was a handshake, a bit of chat, then Mycroft settled his hip against the bridge again. 

“Going to be a few minutes, looks like,” he breathed, keeping his head angled toward the paper on his knee.

“Nice to have inside information,” Sally’s voice came back.

He grit his teeth and let his silence be her reprimand. Not that she wouldn’t hear more from him about it later. 

Greg watched the body language. He couldn’t hear voices, but that was for the best. Mycroft was neutral but polite, which meant nothing, of course. Lombardi seemed determined, nervous, earnest. He folded his arms on his chest early on, and seemed to be trying to keep them there. But every now and then, his right hand came out to gesture. An Italian trying to speak to an Englishman, in English. Mycroft would be aware of the effort, at least.

Then the man reached around to his hip, and Greg tensed, holding his breath. The movement could be any number of things; it didn’t mean there was a gun involved. “Steady,” he said, knowing it was as much for himself as for the others. Mycroft was shaking his head, smiling, patting the air with his hand. Definitely refusing something politely but firmly. Greg frowned, squinting as his mind raced. Smiling, so he wasn’t being threatened. If there were the possibility of a weapon, Mycroft could handle himself, Greg knew, but the immediate danger was nothing compared to the implications if Greg had to charge in and arrest the man.

Then he was holding something out to Mycroft, who tipped his head slightly, giving in, and reached out. Something small, cupped in the man’s fingers. He reached in himself with the fingers of his left hand and took a pinch of something, raised it to his face. Mycroft followed suit, reluctantly, raising his fingers, sniffing it, said something to the man. The man gestured again, this time with both hands, clearly urging Mycroft on. Mycroft smiled again, and put whatever it was in his mouth. He nodded, and the man relaxed, tucking whatever it was back into his pocket. 

There was a bit more conversation, during which Mycroft seemed to be a bit more animated. He seemed to be explaining something, insisting. And now Lombardi was nodding a lot. Listening, nodding. 

And then, suddenly, it was over. Handshake, waving, and Lombardi was walking away, back the way he’d come.

“On his way back to you, Donovan. Stay on him.”

“Ten quid says I find out more following him than you do where you’re headed,” Sally shot back.

“Signing off,” Greg growled, yanking his earpiece out. He squirmed a bit, covering up switching off the radio by scratching his back, rubbing against the backrest of the bench. Mycroft was making a call on his phone, seemingly ignoring him, but Greg knew there was no way the man actually could. He would have been capable of giving a clear description of everyone in the park that morning, enough for a police sketch artist to do perfectly clear renderings.

Greg pushed himself to his feet, moving slowly, aware that even if there were no mysterious henchmen or cronies watching him, his team were certainly not above some kind of epic childishness at such a time. So he kept his movements balanced between homeless-old-man and undercover-cop-who’s-been-sitting-too-long. There was a bin at the end of the bridge, and he shuffled over, intending to drop his newspaper in.

“Have an unmarked car meet us by the south entrance, ASAP. You drive, no one else. I’ll meet you there.”

Greg wasn’t looking at Mycroft, and he was sure the man was still holding his phone. He tossed the paper at the bin; it missed. “Fuck.”

“Yes, Inspector, I mean you. Move.”

He bent to scoop up the paper. “Kind of in the middle of -”

“Firenze Lombardi is not your man. You’re done here. The car, now.” Out of the corner of his eye, Greg saw Mycroft snap his phone shut and drop it into his pocket, then reach up to pull his hat lower. 

Something was wrong. Something Greg hadn’t anticipated, and neither had Mycroft. And yet. Mycroft had his phone. He may have placed another call before Greg had got there. He might place another one now. Greg didn’t dare look back to check. He started to reach back for the radio’s battery pack, but stopped. If he used the radio, he’d be speaking in public, to people who could converge on him, and if Mycroft hadn’t wanted stealth, he would have spoken to Greg openly, without the subterfuge of the phone.

Greg decided. He pulled out his phone, and called the most discreet person he knew professionally. 

“This is Hunter.”

“Lestrade. Sorry, sir. I need an unmarked car dropped off by the south entrance of the park.”

“What’s happened?”

“I dunno yet sir, but I think I’ll find out. Job’s done, I think Lombardi’s legit, but I need that car, and I can’t tell the team. This needs to be kept quiet.”

“And you rang your superior with this secret assignation?”

Greg blushed, and ran his hand back over his head, pulling off the cap and trying to straighten his hair. “I believe it is work related but I’m not yet sure how.”

“Tell me when you do know. It’ll be a Mercedes, silver. Keys under the tire.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Greg had made it to the entrance relatively quickly, but the car was already waiting. He looked around, and saw no sign of his boss. He did, however, see Mycroft. 

He was quite the contrast with his usual self. Both his hands were in the pockets of his coat, the handle of his umbrella looped over his wrist, the tension of his movements almost audible. Greg felt the surge of adrenaline hit his system and scrambled to find the keys and unlock the car, getting the door open for Mycroft as he drew near.

“Back seat,” Mycroft snapped, stopping abruptly.

“I- It’s open,” Greg stammered, shutting the front passenger with a thump.

“Please, Greg,” Mycroft said, impatient and pleading all at once.

Greg leaned forward and opened the door, held it for Mycroft, closed it after him. He hadn’t even pulled his hand out to hold the hat, or remove it as he got in.

Greg crawled into the front seat, leaning over between the seats to see what was wrong. “Please, just drive,” Mycroft told him, slumping to the side slightly and tugging his hands out of his pockets. “Now, quickly.”

“Tell me what’s wrong!”

Mycroft raised his head. Greg recoiled slightly. There were red, raised patches across his neck and face. He didn’t seem frightened, but annoyed, and...

“Are you... _embarrassed?”_ Greg asked. It was the most horrifying thing he had ever felt.

“Drive,” Mycroft repeated.

Greg gulped, and turned away hurriedly, flopping into his seat and starting the engine. “Jesus, Mycroft. What the hell happened?”

“Marylebone is closest.”

“Shouldn’t I be taking you to a hospital?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Have you _seen_ yourself?”

Mycroft sighed, shifting restlessly. “Not this time.”

“This has happened before?”

“I don’t need a hospital.”

“At least John -”

“ _No._ Just get me to Marylebone. Discreetly.”

Greg raised his eyebrows, but didn’t push further. “I’m gonna have to have Donovan bring him in, now,” he added. “I can’t let this kind of thing stand.”

“He’s a fruit trader,” Mycroft said, peeved. “Nothing to do with your investigation. Simply said the wrong thing at the wrong time.”

“Why were you even there?” Greg snapped back, glancing in his rear view mirror and seeing Mycroft’s head turned away quite pointedly, the hat still on. He never left the hat on in the car. Greg squirmed again. “If he was so innocent, why were you even there?”

“He was overheard talking about pineapples in connection with North Korea by one of our informants, at a location we had had under surveillance for some time. It had nothing to do with your organized crime crack-down.”

“Hell of a coincidence for him to trigger both our networks at the same time,” Greg muttered.

“Yes. Coincidence, and that is all. Paranoia, ignorance, and ...please, this can wait.”

Greg glanced back. Mycroft was loosening his tie, and his hands didn’t look right. “Jesus, God, Mycroft! What the hell is happening to you?”

“Hives,” Mycroft spat finally. “And if I’m seen like this, there will be consequences, as our people suspected Lombardi of dealing in smuggled plutonium. Some idiot will think this is radiation poisoning, and go off the deep end.”

“ _Hives?_ ” Greg repeated, half his attention on his passenger even as he dodged through an ugly intersection. “That’s just a few little red bumps! Look at your hands!”

“Yes, thank you, you’re amazingly comforting,” Mycroft retorted, his tone acid. “Antihistimines and a few hours out of sight and no one need know.”

“Why didn’t you just let me stop at a chemist?”

“Because I’d rather people assumed that we were off for a mid-morning sex break than think that I have been poisoned, or worse, let them find out that I have an allergy.”

“I think it’s affecting your mind.”

_“Think,_ Greg! Poisoning is an expected risk for me. But if it should become known that I’m strongly allergic to something, then it becomes a known weakness, something that can be manipulated, and I will cease to be quite so useful.”

Greg saw. Mycroft’s care with his diet, his dislike of travel, his usefulness, his range of skills and the strange reluctance to use many of them. “Achilles could have learned a lot from you.”

“So could most people.”

Greg smiled a bit. 

He parked in the garage, and helped Mycroft out of the car. He was reluctant to touch anything with his hands, and Greg could feel by the way he moved that Mycroft was ready to crawl out of his skin, but was very deliberately not scratching. Greg had to fetch the keys out of Mycroft’s coat pocket, and enter the codes as Mycroft told him. He had taken to pushing his back against the nearest wall and rocking, but not rubbing, as if pressure would alleviate the itching.

Once he’d taken the pills - two small, bright pink capsules that hardly looked as if they could stop a sneeze - Mycroft relaxed a bit. Greg took the glass of water from his hands and set it aside, as Mycroft’s fingers had now swollen to the point where bending them looked uncomfortable. “Is there anything I can do?” Greg asked, running his eyes over the man. He still hadn’t even removed the hat, and was as disheveled as Greg had ever seen him, his tie loosened, his jacket and coat hanging off his hunched shoulders as he squirmed uncomfortably. 

“Help me undress. It shouldn’t take long, but a cold bath will help the itching until the medication has a chance to work.”

Greg tried to smile. “Well, this is a first.”

Mycroft glared at him. “No, it won’t be pretty. Try not to be rude.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Greg said, reaching up for the hat. “It’s just that I’ve never undressed you without fully intending to stare, and this is the first time I’ve done it just to...take care of you.”

Mycroft closed his eyes wearily. “I’m sorry. I’m uncomfortable, and that was uncalled for.”

“No problem,” Greg said easily, helping him out of his coat and jacket together. “Take your mind off it - tell me why I’m not having Lombardi arrested. He is the one who did this, isn’t he?”

Mycroft nodded reluctantly, pulling his waistcoat and shirt away from his body while Greg worked the buttons loose as gently as possible. “He had no idea. He simply wanted to prove that the pineapples he was shipping were harmless, and insisted we both sample the dried product as a symbol of good faith.”

“Why did you need to eat it too? Didn’t you know you’re allergic?”

“I knew. But I didn’t want him, or anyone else, to know. Again, if word got out that I had any kind of weakness like this...”

“Isn’t it in your medical records?”

“Which are some of the most closely guarded documents in the world, I can assure you. There are very few medical centers with clearance to so much as offer me a handkerchief.”

“And John Watson.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

“You’re kidding - not even John? But he... I mean, he and Sherlock... if someone wanted to get to Sherlock...” Greg trailed off. “I see. Yeah.”

Greg crossed the bathroom to the tub, and cranked open the taps. When he turned back, Mycroft was naked from the waist up, and the swollen, lumpy red patches covered most of his body. Greg winced, safely aware that with Mycroft crouched over, unlacing his shoes, he wouldn’t see it. “Turn off the hot water,” Mycroft said without raising his head. “It will only make the itching worse.”

“Trust me. Pipes won’t have warmed up yet, and this will fill the tub faster.” He reached back and swung his hand through the jet of water from the faucet. “Still cold.”

Mycroft straightened, nodding absently as he toed off his shoes and kicked them aside. “Best if neither of us answers the phone for a while, just in case.”

“Won’t that just worry people?”

“Would you answer the phone during sex?”

Greg hesitated, looking away. Then, reluctantly, “...Yes?”

Mycroft tipped his head. “During climax?”

“...No. Okay. But, really -”

“Trust me, Greg. The world will not end, and I can promise that isn’t actually going to happen today.”

“I was fine with it until you said ‘today.’”

“There are a few dates I have my eye on.”

“For my own sanity, I’m choosing to believe that you’re kidding.” He tested the water again, and partially closed the hot tap. “You want to come and feel this?”

Mycroft strode over and rested one hand on Greg’s shoulder, then stepped directly into the tub. He sucked his breath in sharply and Greg reached out to steady him, but he only shook his head, and sat down in the water. “Still a bit warm,” he said, already shivering.

“I’m not letting you get hypothermia,” Greg told him, blocking his hand when he reached for the tap. “No.The pills will kick in soon enough.”

Mycroft’s hands were pressed against the bottom of the tub on either side, his fingers splayed. Greg could see the paleness of his fingers beneath the redness and the swelling. Even as the shivering increased, he could tell Mycroft was somehow relaxing at the same time, and said, “Is it that bad?”

Mycroft turned his head slightly, and pushed himself down and back, letting the cold water run over his shoulder and across his chest, gasping audibly and shuddering hard, and then stilling himself. “You’ve never had hives?”

“Not that I remember. I don’t think so.”

“If you wait long enough, it can cause your tongue and throat to swell, killing you.”

“I thought it was just a minor thing kids got!”

“How have you survived twenty-plus years on the force and not encountered an epi-pen?”

“Well, yeah, those, but... Hey, come to that, if you knew you had allergies like this, why don’t you have one?”

“How often have you passed through the metal detectors to get to my office?”

“You could just keep one in your office. And here.”

“And all the flats?”

“Well...yeah.”

“And where do you suggest I keep it? Something no one else could find, stumble across while cleaning? You know how private my private life is.” Meaning, of course, that it was no such thing - cleaners, housekeeping, security, emergency visits by “members of the intelligence community,” as Mycroft put it. There was privacy - no possibility of blackmail, a protection detail that Greg usually didn’t even notice, unless something drastic was going on. But part of the protection was a regular sweep, and Greg had adjusted to the idea that while strangers might know how many condoms were in the drawer, or what flavour of lubricant, or how often the sheets had been changed, or what was in the waste bins, it would never matter. Some things, private things, weren’t important to anyone else. There was a trick to Mycroft’s complete lack of embarrassment: knowing what mattered, and what didn’t, and then just never forgetting.

“But you had benadryl,” Greg pointed out.

“Hidden in plain sight. Aspirin, paracetamol, ibuprofen, lemsip, benadryl, rubbing alcohol, tweezers... standard medicine cabinet things. But an epi-pen requires a prescription, and, therefore, prior knowledge.”

Greg sat down on the edge of the tub. Mycroft was still letting the water run across him, but his voice was steady, controlled, his eyes closed, possibly in concentration. He had stopped shivering, and the redness seemed to be fading. “Feeling better?”

Mycroft opened one eye, then closed it again. “A bit. The water helps.”

“You’re not going to make it into work today, are you?”

That got a lazy smile. “No, Greg, I will. After this, I will have to.”

“What if I don’t let you?”

“You’ll be too busy.”

“Oh?” Greg wanted, so very much, to touch him. 

“As soon as I can bear it again, I will be getting dressed and going back. And you will want to check in with your team and drop the hint that Lombardi is not your man.”

“And how am I going to do that?”

“Hyun Shin-Wa. That was the name of the man Lombardi had expected to be meeting with in the market. He didn’t show up, and instead sent a proxy. If he had, you would have recognized him as the man from the double murder in Shoreditch.”

“How long have you known?”

“Since I got hives,” Mycroft said bitterly.

“Ah. Right. You know where he is?”

“Not at the moment, but I know who will, and there is no time restriction.”

“You want me to wait. And watch.”

“If you don’t mind.”

“And not touch.”

“Ah.” Mycroft shifted, reached up and shut off the water, glancing at Greg. “Please, no.”

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to set it in North Korea. I failed. Because Greg. Any excuse to get him to Korea was going to get way more involved than the scope of this fic. Also, "plutonium pineapples" is an actual thing. The US is (apparently) concerned with the Democratic People's Republic of Korea exporting plutonium in small amounts, smuggled out in fruit, for example. Such as pineapples. I know, they aren't even a serious exporter of pineapples! But there you have it.
> 
> And the motorcycle should have been a more significant thing, but I choked - I got completely hung up on the inclusion of a motorcycle in something else I wrote with Greg, and... I lost. And this time I chickened out. I admit it.
> 
> Beyond this, well, they just do stuff and I take notes, and occasionally dig furiously.


End file.
